Chapter 11: Only a Devil Could Have Written Words Like These! (Seeking Monthly Support at the Beginning of the Month)

On the morning of January 10, 1879, Paris bustled as it had countless mornings before. As the sunlight pierced through the dense morning mist—a blend of humidity and coal ash—offering the city's inhabitants a touch of warmth and comfort, Bishop Guibert Guillaume Merme de Beauan, president of the Paris Beneficial Reading Society and head of the Paris Archdiocese, sat leisurely upon the ornate toilet in his splendid office within Notre-Dame Cathedral, savoring a moment of relaxation after his morning prayers.

This toilet, a recently imported luxury from England just last month, was adorned with ivory and silver inlays, and its seat cushion was covered with premium Russian fur, ideal for the chill of winter. During summer, the cushion would be swapped for a soft, breathable, and silky fabric to ensure that his delicate posterior remained free from any prickly discomfort.

Within easy reach on the wall hung a gilded rack holding a stack of recently gathered pamphlets and newspapers, collected by the clergy. Of course, Bishop Guibert did not intend to sully his noble mouth by reading these publications for mere pleasure. Being a renowned gourmet in Parisian social circles, he valued more than just the enjoyment of his lips.

Following the age-old tradition upheld by French royalty, he kept a cage outside the lavatory housing a well-trained, pure white goose. At the sound of a bell, his servant would bring the cage inside, allowing the bishop to grasp the goose’s neck for his cleansing ritual. This method offered an extraordinary sensation—combining the softness of the feathers with the warmth of the bird’s body. Rabelais had famously praised this as the most noble, perfect, and convenient method of personal hygiene in his "Gargantua and Pantagruel."

Thus, the newspapers were mere diversion during his time in the restroom. Still, as a man of integrity who loathed all immoral works and as the proposer of the “Law Prohibiting the Dissemination of Immoral Media,” Bishop Guibert viewed these lewd publications through a critical lens.

“Ha ha ha... ha ha ha... ha ha!” The occasional bursts of cheerful laughter echoed faintly from behind the tightly closed bathroom door. André, the servant waiting outside by the cage, smiled, sensing that the bishop was in good spirits today.

Inside, Bishop Guibert set aside the “Lantern Gazette,” having just been amused by a joke:

“A curious villager asked a priest, ‘You’ve taken a vow of celibacy; aren’t you lonely?’ The priest smiled, ‘The Virgin Mary is with me!’ The villager retorted, ‘No wonder your bed creaks every night.’”

“Quite well penned!” The bishop reminisced about the joyful days of his youth as a parish priest in the countryside, where he was a friend to the village women—especially after the emperor’s many defeats had left hundreds of thousands of young men dead on foreign soil.

Now, as a bishop in Paris, his chances for such merriment were fewer. Although he had a few mistresses, those were more, well, social necessities.

In good spirits, Bishop Guibert resolved to go easy on the “Lantern Gazette” for a while and refrain from troubling the “Public Morality Committee.”

He then pulled out the “Clamor Herald,” whose owner, Gabriel, was a cunning fellow often behind on his confessional dues to the Paris Beneficial Reading Society. Still, the Herald’s content was always the most entertaining. The paper had once been banned for two weeks, making his bathroom moments dreadfully dull.

Today’s edition seemed different. On the front page appeared a preface:

“A sincere Parisian recently traveled to the provinces and heard many anecdotes in rural places, which he recorded and submitted to this paper for the amusement of ladies and gentlemen. While these stories may seem absurd, they contain certain wit and serve as a warning that noble morals should guide one’s words and actions, lest one become the subject of village gossip. Hence, we generously dedicate space to publish them in full, found in the supplement ‘Curiosities.’”

“A sincere Parisian?” Was this Gabriel’s new pen name? He often did such things to evade punishment time and again.

As for the talk of “noble morals guiding words and actions,” this was clearly a ruse to cover up his true intent, and Bishop Guibert regarded it with disdain.

Yet his curiosity was piqued, so he skipped the risqué front-page news and turned directly to the “Curiosities” supplement:

“A kind-hearted Burgundian farmer told me that last spring, needing fertilizer for his wheat fields, he visited a nearby monastery hoping to purchase some manure. The cleric in charge offered it at a steep price of two francs per cartload. The farmer exclaimed, ‘Good heavens, sir! That’s double the official rate!’ The cleric replied, ‘Our manure is unlike others; it’s been stomped and compacted by the brothers. One cartload, once soaked, serves as well as two!’”

At first, Bishop Guibert was puzzled. What did “stomped and compacted” mean? He had never heard of any monastery engaging in such business.

But before finishing the second reading, realization dawned upon him. He froze, his facial muscles and fingers trembling uncontrollably, his voice quivering: “How dare he... how dare he...”

While tales of clerical indiscretions have been depicted since the Middle Ages—most notoriously in “The Decameron,” which spared no exaggeration—few had dared touch upon this particular subject for centuries.

Bishop Guibert felt blood rushing to his head, veins bulging on his forehead, yet his eyes could not resist scanning further:

“On the road, I met a devout Orléans weaver leading his young son to the local monastery, presumably to teach him the sacred doctrine. The child let out a loud fart, and the honest man burst into tears. Curious, I asked, ‘Farting is normal; why cry?’ He answered, ‘I think of how my son will never again be able to pass such a loud one. How can I not grieve?’”

This time, the bishop did not need to reread. His face drained of color, turning deathly pale, eyes bulging almost out of their sockets: “The devil! The devil! Only a true devil would write such words!”

The third story was brief, yet despite his efforts to resist, it fell into his line of sight:

“During a countryside journey in Brittany, I traveled with a priest and his young cleric. Midway, the priest went to relieve himself in the woods but accidentally sat on a sapling, crying out in pain. The young cleric made the sign of the cross on his chest: ‘God, is this your punishment?’”

Bishop Guibert momentarily forgot he was still seated on the toilet. Rising abruptly, he attempted to step forward—

At that moment, his servant André heard a cry of agony and anger from inside the bathroom, followed by the sound of something crashing to the floor. Without hesitation, he rushed in.

What he saw would haunt him forever:

The esteemed Bishop Guibert Guillaume Merme de Beauan, crawling on the floor with his rear raised, a fountain of blood spurting from that region, staining the costly fur cushion.

André panicked: “My lord, your hemorrhoids—”

Bishop Guibert could no longer hear his words, shouting instead, “I will report this to the Holy See! I will report this to the Holy See!”

With every cry, the bloody “fountain” grew thicker and higher…

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